The Isle of South Kamui and Other Stories (6 page)

“Doctor, please help me!”

“Help? What can I do?”

“When they come for me, just tell them that I wasn't responsible for spreading that disease.”

“And if they don't believe me?”

“You're a doctor. They'll believe you, alright. Please help me! I don't want to die on this island! The ferry will be here in eight days. You only have to keep it up until then. When they come, tell them it wasn't me. I'm begging you!”

I could not bring myself to answer. There were only two outsiders here. If I testified that the salesman was blameless, it would mean that I was admitting my own guilt. How could I be expected to do that? What was more, if this island god was omnipotent and able to see through everything, then I, not the salesman would be chosen as the sacrifice. If that happened, then it wouldn't be the salesman who needed help. I myself was in danger.

The drumming grew faster and faster. As we listened, the blood drained from salesman's face as though he was a prisoner about to be condemned to death. I, too, must have been white as a sheet.

There was a rent in the clouds, and the bright sun shone through once again.

“The drums—” The salesman's voice caught in his throat.

All sound had ceased. It felt as though the entire island was waiting with bated breath.

I desperately wanted to break the silence. I fought back the urge to yell that it was not the salesman who had brought the disease, it was
me
!
I
spread the germs. I wanted to shout it out. These words would be my death sentence, but if the silence had lasted a moment longer I doubt I would have been able to contain them. But just then the oppressive silence was broken by a low murmur that gradually became louder as it drew closer. The islanders were descending the mountain.

The salesman looked at me. I averted my eyes. For a while he stood rooted to the spot, but as the islanders came into view, as if he could not stand the fear, he suddenly yelled, “I don't want to die!” and sprinted off toward the beach.

The islanders drew close to the dispensary. The four masked youths were at the head of the line. Even in the sunlight, the painted masks were ghastly. But the other islanders' faces were hard, as if they too were wearing masks. Perhaps extreme exhaustion had robbed them of expression. Or maybe their faces had been frozen by their sense of mission as executors of the oracle.

They came to a halt before the dispensary and all looked at me, and then looked at the fleeing salesman.

No doubt I should have confessed my crime at that moment. It was
me
. I was the one who killed the mayor. If you need a sacrificial offering, then please take me.

But instead of confessing, I silently turned my gaze to the fleeing salesman and then shrugged, as if in recognition of the difficult situation.

I betrayed the salesman. I betrayed myself. And if there was a god, I betrayed that god in the most cowardly way possible.

It would have been more human to have pointed a finger at the salesman and ordered, “Kill him!” Just shrugging my shoulders, leaving room for the excuse that I had not actually said anything, had been dishonest.

The islanders slowly turned and started off after the salesman. I too followed after them to see what the outcome of my duplicity would be.

The salesman ran, slipping and falling several times in the mud, before cutting across the wharf to the small inlet where the two canoes were moored. He jumped into one and started rowing for all he was worth out to sea.

The small beach was instantly filled with islanders.

A strong wind was blowing off the sea, and the sea foamed white over the coral reef. The salesman was working the oars hard, but his canoe did not appear to be making any headway.

The four masked youths boarded the other canoe. Their movements were slow, but well-practiced and precise.

I watched from a distance as the four youths rowed their canoe out. Each time the red-painted tips of the four oars glinted in the sun, the distance between them and the salesman's canoe closed fast. It was really no contest. It was cat and mouse.

“Stop!” I yelled. But my voice was drowned out by the sound of the waves and the wind. No, I should say that even if it was drowned out by the sound of the waves and the wind, it was just a faint cry to begin with. I had only shouted feebly and I did not move so much as a step.

A rainbow spanned the sky. The sun was so bright it hurt my eyes, and the sea was blue as far as the eye could see. Within that beautiful scenery, one canoe closed on the other and pulled up alongside, just as in a race. I closed my eyes. I heard neither scream nor angry roar. When I opened my eyes again, the sun was shining as before. Just the salesman and the canoe he had been in had disappeared. It felt as though a gaping hole had opened up in the space where he had been until now.

My knees were shaking, and I had to squat down there and then. I would probably have found it easier to bear if I had been greeted with a bloodbath or vision of burning hell. The tranquil scene as if nothing had occurred merely forced me to imagine for myself what must have happened.

The four masked youths slowly steered their canoe back to the inlet. Four masked executioners. They got out of the canoe and, without a word, walked quietly away in the direction of the village. The islanders, too, dispersed in silence.

I was left alone in the inlet.

The ferry arrived eight days later, but I could not bring myself to board it. If I had run away, the burden on me would have been too heavy to bear. Or you could say that whatever remained of my conscience would not allow me to run away.

I stayed for two years on the island working in the dispensary. I had killed two people on this island—and without even getting my own hands dirty. I intended to atone for my sins, although I knew well enough that it was not something that could be pardoned with a mere two years of work.

Life on the island continued as if nothing had happened, peaceful and cheerful—and dull. The men went out fishing on the emerald sea, exposing their tough sunburned skin to the sea breeze. Those four youths who had worn the devil masks were among them, but it was hard to detect any emotional scars on their faces. They had simply been obeying the oracle, so perhaps they did not feel any distress at having killed a human being. Or maybe wearing the mask had released them from any sense of responsibility. Perhaps their usual character had been transformed when they donned the masks. I did not know.

I did not understand the womenfolk any better. The next day they had continued as if nothing had happened, singing the
maguhai
song as they worked, and laughing that light yet somehow cruel laugh of theirs.

The woman called Otaki was, of course, among them. She continued to bring me food as before, and even if our eyes met, no trace of anxiety or censure clouded her sunburned face. I could only think that she had not seen anything, and knew nothing of the fact that I had been ill.

Other than my own anxiety and guilty conscience, order had been utterly restored on the island, and so it remained for the entire two years I was there.

I hardly spoke to the islanders, and made no effort to get close to them. Neither did I go to the shrine.

Only once did I catch sight from afar of the person they called the Chief, the messenger that conveyed the god's words to the people. He was an ordinary old man, small and somewhat hunchbacked. He was wearing a white kimono of a light fabric that resembled an ancient shroud, and white flowers adorned his head. I had no idea what this getup meant, neither did I wish to know. I wanted to forget everything that had anything to do with what had happened.

I kept my mouth shut and did my job as a doctor. In two years, my sole pastime as such was dangling a fishing line in the sea by the coral reef. I had no idea what the islanders thought of me. All I knew is that for them I was just an outsider. And that relationship would not have changed even if I stayed there for ten or twenty years.

Two years passed, and the day came for me to leave the island.

It was sunny, but just like the day I arrived, the wind was strong and white surf foamed over the coral reef.

All of the island dignitaries, from the new mayor down, came to the wharf to see me off, and just as when I arrived they held a long drawn-out farewell ceremony.

“You really did well to endure such a far-flung island for two years,” they kept repeating to me. I bowed my head without a word, and climbed aboard the fishing boat that would take me out to the
K Maru
. They knew nothing. They all thought I had stayed here for two years out of my sense of vocation as a doctor.

After the fishing boat had set off toward the
K Maru
, I noticed that the young man rowing was one of the youths who had been wearing a devil's mask. His body was muscular, but his round face was that of an ordinary young man.

As the island gradually receded into the distance, I felt an irresistible urge to talk to him about the incident two years earlier. Perhaps it was a reaction to the two long years of silence, or perhaps I just wanted to confess the truth.

“That time two years ago,” I said, deliberately avoiding looking at his face, “you guys sunk the canoe with the salesman in it. Did your god really tell you to kill the salesman? Did you really believe it was the salesman who had brought the disease to the island?”

“It was all the god's will,” the young man said in an unperturbed voice. I felt irritated by his unruffled demeanor.

“Does it never occur to you that the god might get things wrong? Have you never thought that you might have killed the wrong man?”

“The god considers the interests of the island. The oracle is never wrong.”

He smiled. That beatific expression grated on my nerves. I was seized by a sudden hatred for this man sitting here before me. I found it intolerable that while I had suffered for the past two years, this youth—just like everyone else on the island—had remained entirely unaffected thanks to his unshakeable faith in the god.

“That salesman was innocent.” Suddenly I said what had, up till now, been unspeakable. “I know that for sure. Let me tell you why. It's because I myself was responsible for bringing in the disease. I also fell ill, it's just that none of you noticed it; not just you, but that god you believe in didn't notice either. And so you killed that salesman, who hadn't done anything wrong. That god of yours made a mistake.”

I knew these words could well prove fatal for me, but at the same time I was hoping that they would pierce his heart. I was sure he would be upset. How would he react? Would he explode with rage? Would he get angry and cast me into the sea, the same way he had killed the salesman?

But the youth did not get angry, and was not even dismayed. Instead, a rather placid smile played on his weather-beaten face.

“Let me tell you something too, Doctor.”

“What's that?”

“You never went to the shrine, did you? If you had, you would probably already know.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Otaki is the shrine attendant in the service of the god. She knew you were sick. Of course, that means the god also knew it.”

I was aghast. So they had known about it all along! “If that's the case, then why wasn't I punished? Why did you kill the salesman, even though he hadn't done anything wrong?”

“The god considers the interests of the island,” repeated the youth, as he continued to pull slowly on the oars. “As a doctor, you were necessary to us. The god was well aware of that. But somebody had to be punished. That's the rule, and also it's the right thing to do. If we didn't abide by the rules, then we would not be able to maintain order on the island. Every time that salesman came to the island, he passed off bogus goods on us. So it was inevitable that he should be punished.”

“So do you think it was the right thing to do?”

“The oracle was right. As proof of that, you stayed on the island for two more years, Doctor. All that time, we islanders didn't have to worry about getting sick. It was all the god's will.” The youth's smile never faltered, his face was full of confidence.

I felt defeated.

As I was climbing aboard the
K Maru
, I lost my balance and fell awkwardly on the ramp, narrowly avoiding a tumble into the sea.

The young fisherman let out a bright peal of laughter that was somehow tinged with cruelty.

A Summer Reverie

S
ummer
was coming to a close.
    The sunlight reflecting off the sand was still strong, but the high waves of the dog days were beginning to show. Beyond the horizon, as yet invisible, the wild storms of the typhoon season were steadily approaching.

The beach had emptied of people, and most of the rabble of beach shack bars and cafes had been pulled down, leaving just the remains of the wooden posts on which they had rested. Even the din of city kids partying late into the night at their impromptu camp on the headland at the end of the sandy bay had fallen silent in the past few days. An occasional sports car still turned up, brimming with youngsters who raced around the beach and danced wildly with the car radio blaring at top volume, but they lacked the raw energy of midsummer and looked strangely plaintive. They themselves seemed aware of this and soon hurried away looking bewildered, back to their regular haunts in the city.

The seaside season here on the west coast of Izu was over. At least it was over for the city youth.

But I was still here. I was seventeen.

Mother had been lying under the parasol reading a book for some time now. Mother—no, I hated calling
her
mother.
She
was just “she.” She was young—and beautiful. I found her youth and beauty disconcerting.

When my late father first presented her to me and announced they were getting married, I scowled and refused to talk to him for the rest of the day. He thought I was sulking because I was against him remarrying, but it was just that I felt confounded by her beauty. Even after he died at the end of last year, my confusion continued unabated. Or, more to the point, it had grown even worse.

I slowly stood up and, purposely averting my eyes from her, I undressed and went down to the water's edge. In five days' time, my final summer vacation at high school would be over. I would have to go back to Tokyo, where the aftermath of student protests and a tough baseball club training camp awaited me.

I waded into the water up to my ankles and swung my arms in wide circles, flaunting my youth. I was tall, with well-developed muscles. My former classmate Yukibe had once told me, “Wow, what a great body!” Yukibe's real name was Yukiko Kamiki. She had left school after being punished for participating in the student protests. Quite a few other classmates had also left school. Whenever I thought of them I felt guilty of my lifestyle and attitude governed by a “decadent bourgeois mentality.” When I was with
her
, though, my thoughts were consumed with her alone. She controlled me.

I started swimming out to sea. I was of course still aware of her. I looked good when I was swimming. I didn't want to look like a poser, though, so I roughed up my style a bit. I deliberately struck the water hard with my arms. Further out the water abruptly chilled, but I continued at a furious pace. I had to keep it up for a hundred meters or so. Even she would be a little awed by that.

When I drew level with the tip of the headland, I stopped swimming and turned round triumphantly.

The parasol was there, but she had disappeared.

Suddenly I felt the strength drain from my body. Swimming so far so hard had been really dumb, like something a manga character would do. Floating on my back and drifting with the waves, I gazed up at the sky reproaching myself.
Crap
, I thought. Feeling hopelessly wretched, I closed my eyes. Out of the blue I recalled meeting Yukibe in Shinjuku just before the start of the summer vacation. She had left home at the same time as school. When I asked Yukibe where she was living now, she laughed and replied that she was living on the streets. She's awesome.

She's fighting against something
.
But I—

Back on the beach, my thoughts were once again filled with
her
. She had left her book there under the parasol. I picked it up in my wet fingers. I felt a slight thrill, as if I was peeping into a little secret of hers. But then I saw the book she had been so absorbed in was by that awful guy, a friend of my late father who postured as a top novelist although all he wrote was tedious romances that set your teeth on edge. I couldn't stand his novels. And to think that she had been so engrossed in one of those!

I felt furious with both of them and hurled the book into the sea.

When I returned to the villa a while later, a self-important looking bright red sports car was parked outside. I didn't need to see the license number to know who it belonged to. He was here again. I spat loudly, and went round to the bathroom.

As I turned on the shower and started soaping my body, I could hear her laughter rippling from the living room. There was something different from its usual brightness. When we were alone together, just the two of us, she would laugh a lot too, but then it just sounded bright. Now it was clouded with an awareness of the opposite sex. I deliberately made as much noise as I could in the shower.

I got dressed and went through to the living room.

“Was the sea cooling down already?” she asked me. I quickly glanced at both of them before shaking my head.

“No, it wasn't cold at all.”

“It's great to be young. So full of energy! How old are you again?” he asked, but I didn't reply.

She replied for me, “He'll be graduating from high school next year, you know,” and then turned to me, “Mr. Takeda was watching you.”

The novelist ran his slim fingers up through his long hair and, ignoring me, said to her, “I've had terrible writer's block lately. I thought if I could just gaze at the sea, I might get some new ideas, and so I came out here.”

“You talk about writer's block, but I really enjoyed your latest novel,
Parting One Rainy Morning.
”

She was praising the book I had just thrown into the sea. He grinned exultantly. I was not amused. Why was she heaping praise on this tedious novelist?

“I focused on adult love in that one. There have been so many rather childish novels lately and I was consciously making a stand against that trend.”

Again paying me no attention, he spoke directly to her, drawing her into “adult talk” and blithely excluding me from their conversation. I was indignant. I was already an adult. At least, I thought I understood the adult world. Feigning composure, I went and sat on the couch and, trying not to listen to their conversation, I kept my eyes glued on her. Her face looked somehow different. At first I didn't know what had changed, but after watching her for a while I realized that her makeup was thicker. And she had painted her nails red. Had she made herself up for his sake? I was beginning to feel suffocated. I did my best not to listen to their conversation, but I heard it all the same. I was jealous of her laughing with relish at his bad jokes, and pleased when she failed to laugh right away. Oscillating like this between optimism and despair was wearing me out and I could feel myself sinking into self-loathing.

I got up from the couch and went out through the back door, heading once again for the beach.

The wind was stronger now. The parasol had fallen over in the sand and I went to right it, but then left it as it was and walked toward the headland. As I walked I tried to fill my thoughts with something other than her.

Would the student protests continue even after the summer vacation was over? What was Yukibe doing on the streets? And then in fall there would be the high school baseball tournament in Tokyo, and as a senior I was responsible for making sure we won it for the first time in five years. There were any number of things I had to think about. But even so, I—

I stopped in my tracks. There, by some rock pools was a little girl of about three or four, her blonde hair sparkling in the setting sun. The child looked sweet in her bikini, her belly button sticking out, and for a while I stood gazing vacantly at her. She was intent on catching a small shore-crab as it poked its head out of a small hole in the rocks. Utterly absorbed in her task, she pouted as she cupped her little hands and quickly covered the hole. But the crab was too fast for her as it retreated back inside. She shrugged. For some reason the crab seemed to want to come out of the hole and soon poked its head out again, and again she pouted and tried to catch it. This was repeated over and over again. She put all her energy into it, and on each failure she gave a deep sigh and shrugged her shoulders. Watching the little girl, I felt something refreshing flow through the core of my being, but at the same time my heart ached. I was no longer capable of getting so excited about a simple crab. If I really made an effort I probably could, but just by making that effort I would probably end up feeling disgusted with myself. With
her,
I rejected my immaturity and did my best to appear grown-up, but seeing this little girl I couldn't help feeling lonesome at the fact that I was already too grown-up.

All of a sudden the girl shrieked. The crab had made its escape and was headed my way. I reflexively dropped to my knees and picked it up. With a surprised look the girl glared at me and let out a piercing scream, “
My
crab!”

I looked at the crab writhing in my hands. It had a red shell. Its strangely vivid redness reminded me of
her
red lipstick, her red-painted nails, and his red sports car. He was probably still making her laugh with his grown-up talk. Was she still gazing at him with that coquettish smile? All at once, I hated the crab.

A look of terror flashed across the little girl's face and she started screaming hysterically. Unawares, I had crushed the crab in my hand. Flustered, I apologized. But her face drained of color, and she inched backwards then turned and fled.

I slowly stood up. The crab had fallen from my hand and lay white belly up. Its legs twitched briefly, but soon stopped moving. A wave came and washed away the dead crab's broken pincers.

Even as night fell, he made no move to leave. She, too, was urging him to stay. I could not bear to face him, so, as soon as dinner was over, I went up to my room.

I flung open the window and gazed out at the night sea. The late August breeze already had a chill in it. There was a moon, but the sea was dark and it had set up an eerie moan as if hiding some mysterious secret. I pictured the face of the little blonde girl I had met on the beach in that dark sea. When she had taken fright and screamed, had my face been so hideously contorted that it could scare a child? And when I watched
her
together with him, was my face unappealingly disfigured by jealousy? I could not bear the thought of that. At seventeen, ugliness was the biggest sin of all. For me, there was no meaning in unattractive youth. Youth had to be good-looking.

I am not ugly!
I told myself. How could I be? There was an intensity in my eyes, but that was a sign of my youth. I automatically measured myself against that novelist. He was old. Compared to a seventeen-year-old like me, at forty-something he was already ancient. Compared to
her
twenty-eight years, he was ancient. That bright red sports car wasn't suited to him. An old man in a sports car was ludicrous. He was a joke, a clown. I reeled off a string of insults, but instead of enjoying it, I merely felt depressed. The fact that he was a boring old man who drove a sports car that didn't suit him did not necessarily turn me into an awesome young man. What's more, she still seemed to be happily chatting away with him. Every now and then I could hear them laughing. The sound of her giggling in amusement easily crushed any sense of superiority I might have felt.

I slammed the wardrobe door shut and, opening the drawer, took out my father's hunting rifle. The British-made double-barreled weapon was the one thing my father left to me. He had often taken me hunting with him when I was a child. Hunting is a man's sport, he had been fond of saying. I had enjoyed it, too. I found the solid weight of the rifle in my hands mysteriously calming. I did not know why. Maybe I felt cool handling a gun, or perhaps I felt the presence of my dead father in it.

I loaded the rifle and slipped out of the villa with it. I had an irresistible urge to shoot something.

I walked along the dark beach to the tip of the headland. There was nobody around. The wind howled and the waves crashed, but somehow I had an eerie feeling of being immersed in deep silence.

The pine branches and undergrowth on the headland rustled. I planted my feet in the grass and, raising the gun, aimed out into the night sea. It was dark, and I had no idea what I was shooting at. Yukibe had told me harshly that we had to feel murderous against the system. She was probably walking the streets right now looking for an enemy to kill. Yukibe was happy. She had an adversary to fight, but I did not know who or what to shoot. I chewed my lip and, aiming out into the blackness, pulled the trigger.

I felt a slight recoil. For a brief moment, the dark night was split by a blue-white flash.

What had I just shot? Just his ugly potbelly?
Her
beautiful face? The little blonde girl on the beach? Or myself?

That night in my dreams, I shot
her
.

She was naked. Her body was beautiful. That's why, in my dream, I had to shoot her. As she fell, with bright red blood streaming from her white breast, my entire body was pierced by an intense joy. Even after I awoke, the lingering effects of the ecstasy persisted. And I realized that the lower half of my body was wet from having ejaculated. Normally I would have jumped out of bed in confusion, but this morning I stayed with my eyes fixed on the glow of morning sunlight on the ceiling, ruminating on the dream like a cow chewing the cud.